


Only Love Can Hurt Like This

by zahrawrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teenage Castiel/Teenage Dean Winchester, castiel is involved in some shady stuff because people are after him, nerd!dean sort of but not explicitly, smoker!castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zahrawrites/pseuds/zahrawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU was "fake somebody’s death or reveal that they had faked their death"<br/>I wasn't sure if I should have tagged it as Major Character Death because its not really.</p><p>Title taken from Only Love Can Hurt Like This by Paloma Faith.<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PaKr9gWqwl4</p><p>As usual, constructive criticism and comments are always welcome.</p><p>Enjoy x</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Love Can Hurt Like This

The first time it happens, Dean chalks it up to missing Cas.

He wakes at 02:37 - that's what his alarm clock says - stirred by a nightmare.

The nightmare is always the same. It rains. He holds Castiel's lifeless body in his arms. He weeps. There's blood everywhere, on Cas, on his hands. Everytime he tries to wipe it away, more appears. Eventually, he drowns in it, suffocating, and awakens in his bed, breathless and gasping for air like a fish out of water.

His breathing - as usual - is strained when he is jerked awake, laying on his front, hands tucked under his pillow.

He can feel the icky cold sweat on the back of his neck, his forehead, his shoulder blades.

For a moment, he simply lies there, trying to regulate his breathing - he tries the stupid counting thing Sam told him about. It doesn't work.

It's raining outside. He can hear the hailstones against the roof. They’d been talking about a storm on TV for weeks now.

There's a loud rumble of thunder immediately followed by a sharp crack of lightning. He blinks.

Absently, he remembers that Sam doesn't like storms, how he's scared of them.

Not much scares Dean anymore.

It takes great effort to roll over. But he has to or else risk getting an annoying fucking cramp.

He drags an arm to rest over his eyes allowing him to hone in on his other senses. He doesn't really want to. They do it themselves.

His breathing has calmed. The blanket pooled around his waist.

There's another rumble of thunder followed by another crack of lightning.

And another.

And another.

He counts them like sheep. But he can't sleep.

He rubs his palms into his eyes, dropping his hands to his chest to stare at the ceiling.

He's still a little grateful he can get _some_ sleep.

He knows Mom and Dad think he can't deal; c _an't manage_ he's heard them say in passing. 

Sam occasionally tries to speak to him. Tries to get him to respond because lately all it's been is school, work, study, sleep. He's even put off eating until his blood sugar level drops and he's close to passing out before remembering to shove a banana down his gullet so nobody finds him unconscious and sends him to the fucking nuthouse.

He doesn't speak.

He has nothing to say.

Another crack of lightning flashes across his room. It creates shadows and jagged lines and that's kind of how he feels nowadays. A broken version of his former self.

His bedroom window is open. It's been open for four weeks now and Dean thinks something's broken in its mechanism because he leaned on it a few days ago and it didn't budge. There's no curtain in front of it either because Dean ripped it down in a fit of rage about a week and a half ago.

The icy air is not a relief.

He wishes it was. He wishes it could cool the burn in the centre of his chest. He rubs at his skin absently. It hurts. Inside him. But the pain - it's hard to describe. Sometimes, it's not so bad but mostly it just aches and _aches_. He tries not to think about it.

He fails.

 _It_ happens within a quarter of a minute; between one lightning crack and a sigh as he sits up.

He swears- _swears_ that for a split second he sees Castiel. When he tilts his head, he sees the teenager sitting on the roof outside his window, pulling a drag from a cigarette, just like he used to. Tendrils of smoke floating up into the gloomy sky overhead. The rain's stopped but that doesn't make it easier to see.

Dean can't help but stand and take a step towards to the illusion but he stumbles and something clatters. The boy outside turns his head to the noise and meets Dean's disbelieving gaze.

Dean freezes under the gaze of ocean blue eyes and damp hair that Dean has, on many occasions, run his fingers through. An involuntary smile pulls at his lips before he remembers.  By the time he's looked away to the source of the noise and back again, Castiel is gone.

He'd been half way to reaching out an arm before he retracted it and rubbed at his eyes because that can't possibly be true. He's an idiot. He's just seeing things because he misses Cas.

It can't really be Cas... because Castiel Novak _died_ four weeks ago.

Cas is gone and thinking about it breaks his heart all over again.

Dean had seen it all, he'd grieved silently over the coffin, watched it get lowered into the ground. A six foot by two foot grave; stood over the Cas-sized hole in the dirt. Dean _mourned_.

He mourned his best friend and regretted a whole lot more.

Dean doesn't like to talk about the _"more"_. Hell, he's never actually _talked_ about it. Not when Cas was alive, not after he died. And _God_ he regrets it. Regrets it with every fibre of his being.

Sometimes he wishes he could've grown a pair and just told Cas how he loved him. How he adored him. How he was so unbelievably content and breath-stoppingly _happy_ with spending the rest of his life with Cas. What's the worst that could have possibly happened? Cas would've stopped talking to him? Not wanted to be his friend? ...but at least he would've known.

But Cas is dead, so there's no point in talking about it now. So Dean doesn't. He avoids every Cas related topic like it's the plague.

His shoulders feel weighted. He shouldn't feel so old for someone so young. It isn't right.

He goes back to bed without another word.

He doesn't sleep.

X-x-X

His Cas sightings become more and more frequent.

It's become a habit. He doesn't think it's good for his mental health but that ship has sailed so he figures he has nothing to lose.

The thing is, he always sees Cas at the most inopportune times. Always when he's buried under a car, or staring idly out of a classroom window or in the street when he's with his parents. At times when he can't run after the hallucination or have it within arms reach to just be able to try and touch his best friend again.

And it frustrates him more than anything. It's torture, really. Accepting that Cas is gone is one thing, but moving on isn't exactly easy when he's sees him at every fucking corner.

All of this culminates into insomnia. If Dean thought his sleeping was bad before, turns out _not_ sleeping is worse.

He reads. He plays video games. He studies. He tries to keep himself busy. But the dark circles under his eyes are inevitable. Most nights he just spends in his bed, thinking, about what is and what could have been.

It makes him angry. He's not sure who he's angry at; Cas' ignorant parents, himself... Cas. He wants to throw things, watch them shatter.

He doesn't.

He buys a stress ball instead. It becomes a part of him; forever joined to his right palm. His parents notice, so does Sam, but they don't say anything.

One night it becomes too much. Another bout of restlessness in full swing and Dean's rubbing his eyes. He does that a lot these days.

His ipod's on shuffle and he hates the song but he's too tired to get up from his vertical position on the bed to change it.

Three and a half songs later, Dean allows himself to let his thoughts wander again. He hasn't for a while so he thinks its time. He enjoys it. The guilt is enough to drown in but as it turns out, he's a masochist.

He closes his eyes.

First, he imagines Cas. This is important. He's heard stories about people forgetting what their dead looked like. _Over my dead body that's happening with Cas_ he thinks. He ensures he remembers what Cas looks like, down to excruciating detail.

He starts with the eyes. Always with the eyes. Ocean blue and bright; he regrets not spending more time making them happy.

He remembers when Cas used to start on something he enjoyed talking about, like the stars or bees. Always the fucking bees. Dean smiles. He remembers how bright Cas’ eyes used to get, all excitement and no care that he kinda looked like a nutter when he went on one of those rants. Dean enjoyed those rants. He remembers how hazy they used to get when Cas tried a new drug behind the school. Cas wasn’t exactly addicted, but in one of his trips he’d confessed to Dean that he only did the drugs to make him feel alive. Huh. Fat lot of good that did him now.

He moves onto the hair; untameable as usual. From afar it looked like it was raven-coloured but Dean knows the truth. The days wasted in his back garden under the sun brought out the true colour of Cas' hair; deep chocolate brown and as soft as cotton.

That reminded him of when Cas used to push his hands through his own hair when he was stressed or frustrated, a trait that had Dean grasping Cas' hands to stop him.

The long, slender fingers attached to strong, sturdy palms capable of lifting someone up or bringing them crashing down. He'd watched them love people; having mistakenly walked in on the perpetual thrusting of hips at Bela's party when he'd gone in search of his apparently "lost" friend. He'd avoided Cas for days after that. Cas couldn't even remember her name; only that she had pretty eyes and lips he could kiss for days. Cas had considered trying to find her, but he moved on soon enough and just forgot.

Dean didn't want to be forgotten.

Though Cas' hands were capable of bringing immense pleasure, Dean had seen their destructive abilities too. The worst was when he'd found Cas hiding out in his room, knuckles raw and bleeding, face battered. There was blood on his clothes that Dean hoped didn't belong to him, yet he was hunched over, clutching his torso with one hand while casually perusing Dean's CD collection with the other.

Dean had thrown a fit; dropped his backpack haphazardly and rushed to retrieve the first aid kit, sat Cas down and pulling the blood soaked hands into his lap.

When he was done, Cas had just smiled, thanked him and climbed back out the window again, leaving him surrounded by bandages, anti-septic's and crimson cotton wool balls.

Dean had not slept well on that night.

Then there was the sharp cut of Cas' hipbones leading down to firm, muscled runner's thighs. Cas had been running his whole life; from his parents, or school, or expectations, and even himself sometimes.

Out of all things though, Dean longed to hear Cas' voice. The deep, comforting rumble had been a soother after a particularly difficult exam or a stressful conversation with his parents about his future.

Dean remembers holding the phone to his ear in the early hours, lying on his bed, trying to stop the tears tracking their way down his face; his father having screamed the house down earlier on when Dean announced his decision to not participate in higher education; Cas telling him it would be okay and how his father would come around and if he didn't then _we could just run away, Dean, screw this craphole town, run away with me_ he'd murmured temptingly.

Dean wishes he'd said yes right there. There had been so much hope in Cas' voice, such _trust_ and belief and... desperation.

The memory of the Cas' voice is inevitably accompanied by the attachment of his lips. Cotton candy pink, like bubblegum and Dean had wanted a taste for the longest time, he wishes he had just asked. He thinks its unlikely that Cas would've said no. Or maybe that's the desperation talking.

They were always chapped, no matter how much Dean chastised him about keeping them moisturized, especially during the winter.

And that's where the spiral starts, over fucking _chapstick_.

Before Dean knows it, he's thrown his books across the room and smashed the full length mirror that hangs behind his bedroom door. His breathing is heavy and uneven, but eventually he tires and rests his clenched fists on the wooden desk, his back to the open window. He can feel the breeze enter the room, crawl up under his thin t-shirt and for a second it feels like Cas' ice cold hands.

Oh how he _wishes_ it was Cas' hands.

"Fuck!" He whisper-shouts into the eerie quiet of his room. He closes his eyes and runs a palm over his face. If he listens really hard, he can almost hear Cas' breathing; an imprint from when the other boy used to be alive, and that's another thing, Dean's really fucking fed up with using the past tense of everything.

"I really fuckin' miss you man..." He murmurs. "Like... a lot." He finishes with a firm squeeze of the stress ball in his right hand.

"I don't think..." He starts bravely but he falters, running a hand through his hair. "I don't think I can do this without you." He confesses, voice having dropped to a whisper.

"I wanna see you again. I _need_ to see you again. I need this all to be some really fucked up dream or a horribly planned joke and I need you to be alive." He says, turning around and someone up there must be listening because there's Cas again, standing inside his room, right beside his window. He's wearing a slightly startled expression as if he wasn't expecting Dean to be there.

Dean's shoulders tense because he's getting kinda fucked off with these regular appearances, what's the point if he can't have the real thing? His nut must be more screwed than he thought if can make Cas appear on command.

His mouth twists into a sneer. "Fuck off, Cas." He closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his temples trying to get rid of the hallucination his brain loves conjuring.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is still there and his brows have pinched together in confusion and Dean's heart aches because its been _so long_ since he's seen that expression.

Cas wrings his hands together and a moment later Dean's really surprised because then the vision… _speaks_.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's breath is punched out of him, the force of it makes him take a step back, and his hand comes up to rub minutely at the centre of his chest because that’s never happened before.

"You're not even real." He reminds himself dejectedly and sits on his bed, his back to Cas. "Go the fuck away." He rubs at his forehead as if that'll help.

It's quiet for a while and Dean gets curious but when he twists his neck to check... Cas is still there.

He stands in anger. "Why won't you leave me alone? What the hell do you want? Why are you torturing me like this?" His arms are splayed and his questions turn to apologies. "I'm sorry, okay?! I'm sorry that your parents didn't understand. I'm sorry I was a shitty friend."

He's crying now, breath stuttering. "I'm sor- sorry that I wasn't brave enough to... run away with you. I'm so _sorry_ I couldn't save you, Cas."

The vision steps forward. "Dean." Cas looks so disappointed.

Dean shakes his head vigorously and holds a palm out in front of him to get Cas to stop. "No. No fucking way. You’re not even real, I can’t even touch you."

Cas doesn’t stop stepping forward. His hands are up in surrender, as if he were placating a frightened animal.

For every step Cas takes, Dean steps backwards until his back is against the wall. In a burst of anger he throws the stress ball at Cas.

What happens next stops Cas dead in his tracks.

The ball hits him in the chest, bounces off and rolls away near the desk.

There’s pin drop silence except for Dean’s heavy breathing; they both watch the ball until it rolls out of their eye lines. There’s so much confusion and surprise and utter _disbelief_ on Dean’s face when he looks up at Cas, his mouth has dropped open, tears in his eyes and streaming down his face, brows furrowed.

The air is palpable.

Dean can’t think straight and he can’t keep his eyes off Cas.

"Wha…" he trails off, not quite finishing because that means- No.

It can’t be.

But…

Dean swallows around the dryness in his throat and he thinks he might puke.

"Tell me this is a fucked up dream-" his voice raw and broken from weeks of being unused. "-or a fucking horrible joke…"

Cas shakes his head minutely.

Dean exhales hard like he’s been hit in the gut.

"Are…" He’s afraid to ask. His heart is thundering, there’s blood rushing in his ears, his hands have started shaking and he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

He tries again because he has to be sure and if it isn’t then he’s gonna check himself into the nuthouse.

"Are you… _real?_ " He barely whispers the question before Cas is nodding his head and Dean lets out a broken sob and rushes forward to put his arms around his friend.

The first contact after so long is glorious and if Dean believed in Heaven he thinks he might’ve found it here. Cas stumbles back a few steps with the force of Dean’s embrace but holds on nevertheless; his arms coming up around Dean’s waist. Dean presses himself to Cas, shuts his eyes - the tears there fall onto the back of Cas' shirt - and wraps his arms around Cas’ neck and shoulders.

He presses himself into Cas, wanting to feel all of him at once, unable to fathom that Cas is real and tangible and he could be so lucky. He holds on for dear life, as if Cas might disappear if he lets go.

He can feel Cas' hands stroking his hair and running comfortingly up and down his back.

Dean doesn't want to let go, so he doesn't. But he pulls back slightly so that they're nose to nose.

"You di-died, Cas." His breath hitches.

He should be angry, he should've knocked Cas out by now. But he just can't bring himself to do it. He's just so incredibly _grateful_ to have his best friend back.

He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Cas', drags a hand over Cas' shoulder to let his fingers run along his jaw - the gesture is slow and reverent - his other hand is still tangled in the hair at the nape of Cas' neck.

"I _mourned_ you." He accuses in a harsh whisper. "I watched them bury you. How could you-"

"I'm sorry, Dean." Cas rumbles quietly and Dean doesn't think he'll ever get sick of hearing Cas' voice. "It had to be real, you had to believe I was gone. They would've found me - and you - and I couldn't have that. I am _so_ sorry, Dean."

"Who's they?" Dean asks, still pressed close together.

"It doesn't matter. They're gone." He punctuates with a stroke of Dean's hair. "And I'm here. I watched over you."

Dean's laugh is bitter. He thumps on Cas' chest. Cas puts his hand over Dean's and holds it there, over his heart.

"You're a fucking asshole." Dean murmurs. "I thought I was going nuts."

"I'm sorry." Cas repeats himself, he gets the feeling that he'll be saying that for a long time. He doesn't mind.

They're quiet for a few seconds before Dean opens his eyes and is greeted by bright, ocean blue eyes.

"Hi." Dean whispers, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Hi." Cas repeats the greeting back to him.

Dean's heart jumps when his gaze tracks its way down Cas' face to rest on his lips.

"Cas, I..." He struggles, gaze flicking up to his eyes.

Castiel squeezes his hand in reassurance. "It's okay."

Dean shakes his head. It's not okay. He should be able to do this. Cas is back. He's been given a second chance to not be an idiot. He takes a breath, imagines the air filling his lungs with bravery... and speaks.

"I love you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, I should have because you deserve better than half-assed crap and I get it if you don't feel the same way but... I am so  _in love_ with you and I can't help it."

Dean holds his breath.

He'd dropped his eyes from Cas' face ages ago, afraid of the inevitable rejection.

When the silence has become embarrassing, he begins to pull away and pretend his heart isn't sinking.

But Cas tightens his hold on Dean's hand and waits until he looks up.

When Dean does, Cas doesn't speak. He just leans in and kisses him.

As simply as that.

Dean's so taken by surprise and wrapped up in Cas and the fact that he's _kissing him_ that he doesn't realise that Cas has walked him backwards to press him against the wall.

He's still a little starstruck and breathless when they pull away to breathe. "What was that?" He asks.

Castiel smiles, running his thumb over Dean's cheekbone. "I know how much you don't like words."

Dean laughs and opens his eyes. He's never been so grateful for his sight as he is in that moment. "Yeah, words fucking _suck_."

Castiel tilts his head in that way and remarks cheekily, "I think that's something words and I have in common."

Dean's eyes widen in surprise. "Oh yeah?" He asks before he kisses Cas again.

"Prove it." He challenges.

 

Nobody finds out about Castiel's return until the next evening when Sam happens to accidentally walk in on them. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, my Tumblr is [here](http://prettyboydean.tumblr.com) :)  
> Drop me a message, tell me what you thought - I'd really appreciate it :)


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